


Going Down In Sight Of Land

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 2013 Sultry In September, Foreshadowing, M/M, Prophetic Dreams, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:58:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father once said that not even with the Sight could you See everything. Finrod didn't believe him then, because Arafinwe was <i>Arafinwe</i>, and whatever he looked for in the future he Saw.</p><p>Finrod dreams, Finrod Sees, but the future of his cousin is a impregnable cloud. A closed book. Rather like his cousin's face, in fact. Rather like his cousin's heart. </p><p>Wiser men than Finrod have been pulled into this trap before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going Down In Sight Of Land

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oshun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/gifts).



> Written for the 2013 Sultry in September Fic Exchange.
> 
> I would say I am...unsure about this one. It's my first try at Curufin/Finrod (still debating why I picked them but we'll gloss over that xD) so go easy on me. 
> 
> Wishing the best to my great recipient :)

Somewhere in their party, someone was singing.

“ _Nargothrond, hidden vale, city in the rock…_ ” The song was supposed to be a celebration of the city’s beauty, but in the voice of this singer it sounded more like a dirge. The voice came to them on the wind in small snatches from a fair distance away down the column, and the dourness of it added a perfect counterpoint to Curufin’s mood.

He should not have allowed his brother to convince him that this was a good idea. They should have done as he suggested, and fled with all speed to Himring as soon as it was clear Himlad could not be saved. But Celegorm had got the fool idea in his head that Nargothrond would be the better choice, and in the midst of fire and death and chaos Curufin had allowed himself to be swayed.

He wasn’t the only one in the party who would have preferred Himring. Celebrimbor was riding next to him, looking only downward at the neck of his horse. His son cared deeply about the people who followed them, and would have preferred the safety of Himring’s strong walls and the certainty of their warm welcome to this long march fraught with potential peril and the uncertain reception that lay in wait at the end. _He would also have preferred the uncles and cousin he knew, rather than the uncles and cousin he has barely met_.

But they had gone too far to turn back now.

In contrast, Celegorm was fairly cheery as they rode along the bank of the river, the dark water a wide expanse beside them, deep and fast-flowing. They had opted to come a slightly longer route around the southern edge of Doriath, following the river Aros and through the Fens of Sirion into the lands of Nargothrond. This had led them close to Amon Ereb, where Amrod and Caranthir would have accepted them, but Celegorm wouldn’t hear of stopping. “If we intended to stay in the East, we would have gone to Himring,” he had announced, in that tone of voice that said his mind was made up and he would not be moved, and they continued onward.

That night when they had pitched camp, eaten the evening meal and the sentries were beginning the first watch, Curufin turned over on his bed roll and asked his brother, “Why are we going west?”

He couldn’t quite see Celegorm’s exact expression in the dark, but he knew his eyebrows had pulled down into a frown. “Because Himlad is gone. We need somewhere safe to live with our people.”

“Yes, but why Nargothrond?”

“It’s hidden. Secret. The enemy doesn’t know where it is.”

“You believe all their tales?”

He could make out Celegorm’s nod. “Yes. They make sense, don’t they? Not even we know exactly where Nargothrond is.”

Curufin didn’t speak for a long moment, and in the end decided not to reply at all. He turned over and let Celegorm assume he was going to sleep.

They were making this journey on faith, then, faith that the hidden city of Nargothrond was safer than the south-eastern lands. A strong faith with evidence to back up its assertions, but with an element of faith nonetheless. And more was in what Celegorm hadn’t said and what Curufin hadn’t asked; why should they expect Finrod to let them in?

Curufin forced the thoughts from his mind and drifted off into sleep.

/

Finrod was back in Alqualondë, on his knees in the white sand, a strong swell washing up on the shore. A huge conch shell was sitting on the sand in front of him, brown mottled with white along its back, the white fading to a pale pink blush on the inside edge. He traced one finger over the smooth shell.

His father was standing a few feet away, ankle deep in the water. The hem of the long white robe he was wearing was soaked, clinging to his calves, and his long hair was unbound and blowing behind him in the wind, sparkling golden in the sunlight. He didn’t speak; just stared out to sea.

They stayed that way a long time, neither moving nor speaking, and the sky above twinkled with starlight, coloured by Laurelin’s golden glow through the Pass of Light.

Finrod was struck with a sudden impulse to pick up the shell. He put it to his ear, and then jerked back from it; the sound of a battle raging thundered out from it where there should have been the illusion of the sea’s waves. He put it to his ear again carefully, warily, and thought he could hear his brother’s voice, shouting something.

When he looked up again the light’s Mingling had past and everything was gilded silver, though only a few moments before Laurelin’s light had been strong. Diamonds sparkled in the sand, and his father’s hair was silver like starlight, and longer than before.

“This is a dream,” Finrod said softly, but before his father turned he woke up.

His own room was swamped in darkness. He sat up and pushed the covers away, the dream still lingering in his mind. He always considered his dreams carefully; they sometimes contained portents or formed part of his ability to divine the future. This one eluded him for now, though, so he put it aside as he lit his candles.

A knock sounded on his door. When he called, “Enter,” one of his captains came in, bearing a slip of parchment. Finrod took it without a word, then blinked in surprise at the contents. “My cousins?” he said, his tone surprised.

“They await you outside the gates, my lord.”

Finrod frowned. “Outside the gates? Why have you not let them in?”

The captain shifted uncomfortably. “This is a secret refuge, my lord. We had thought it would be best for you to decide who should enter and who should not.”

Finrod sighed. “True enough. But these are my cousins, and their people are in need, if the steward’s note is to be understood. Allow them to pass through the gates; I will be there to greet them shortly.”

When he arrived in the wide entrance hall the gates stood open, allowing moonlight and a flow of elves inside. He spotted his cousins instantly, standing and talking to his steward. They all looked around and fell silent as he approached. “I have heard of your trouble and the perils you have encountered,” he started, forgoing formal greetings. “What happened…I am sorry for your loss.”

Curufin acknowledged this with a sombre nod of his head. “We would not have intruded on your hospitality without dire need,” he said quietly, “But Himlad is no longer safe or inhabitable, and Himring is too small for all our forces combined. Reports said that Nargothrond could comfortably support a host three times your number, so we thought we might offer our strength of arms in return for acceptance into your city. We know your charity, Findaráto, and hoped you might help a people in need of friends.”

“And take pity on your now landless, homeless cousins,” Celegorm said, an edge of black humour in his voice.

The decision probably should have been harder to make, but Finrod could not see any other option. How could he turn his cousins away when their own homes had been destroyed? Besides, fighting men to swell the city’s armies would be welcome. “The Naugrim were enthusiastic in their delving, and there are many rooms and halls unoccupied. You would be welcome to join the Kingdom of Nargothrond.”

Curufin and Celegorm’s smiles were wide. “That is all we ask,” Curufin said quietly, but a shudder of foreboding suddenly ran through Finrod, disturbing his mood. He didn’t let it show on his face and nor did his smile move an inch, but for a few moments cold dread sat in his belly. Then it was gone, but a feeling of caution remained.

He was walking on thin ice, he knew it somehow; but he didn’t yet know why.

/

His cousins and their people settled in well. The halls were full, and Nargothrond was livelier than he’d ever seen it. This uplifting mood alleviated some of the disquiet Finrod had been feeling ever since they had arrived. He had seen nothing more of the future, had no more flashes of insight, and he began to believe that what he felt had simply been nerves or uncertainty about his decision. He had no reason to doubt it now, after all; everything seemed to be working out smoothly.

A few weeks after they arrived, his brother appeared at the gates of the city with an escort out of Tol Sirion. Finrod met him with a smile, but Orodreth looked angry. Instead of greeting him warmly, he opened with, “You allowed them into your city.”

Finrod sighed heavily. “I didn’t think you would take well to their presence.”

“I don’t. I like it not at all.”

“They are homeless; they have seen great tragedy. Would you have had me turn them away?”

Orodreth shifted uncomfortably and said nothing.

Finrod turned away. “Come inside.”

/

Orodreth stayed for ten days, a scowling and glowering presence at his side. Celegorm and Curufin avoided him as much as possible, and soon enough he was leaving, still unhappy, and Finrod felt frustrated that they had not been able to settle anything between them. Orodreth tersely extended an invitation for the three of them to visit in Tol Sirion, as good manners required, but Finrod imagined the courtesy of their reception would be somewhat chilly if they ever decided to take him up on it.

Time seemed to pass quickly after his brother’s visit. Problems drew Finrod’s attention; he fixed them. He celebrated festivals, oversaw new constructions, rode out with his men to survey the land. He didn’t forget about Orodreth, but his attention was often diverted. He made attempts to reconnect with his brother through messages, but writing could never be a fit substitute for real words.

His cousins were more forthcoming, at least superficially. He was fairly sure Celegorm didn’t lie to him overtly, but he was never one for talking about his feelings. Curufin, though…he could never tell if what he said was truth or falsehood, and it unsettled him. His cousin had a sharp smile and bright, keen eyes, and Finrod knew that he never missed a thing. Lingering under that gaze felt like opening himself to inspection. He didn’t actively avoid his cousin, he told himself; but Curufin often seemed to be the one seeking him out.

Short visits in his rooms, a quiet chat before council began, a stroll through the halls. All as innocuous and innocent as possible, of course. Curufin often turned up on his left or right hand at dinner as well, much as Finrod tried to vary who sat next to him. Curufin had a way of watching him, sometimes with that sharp smile flickering on his face, as if he knew something Finrod did not. Finrod did not like that smile.

He wondered about portents, he wondered about the future, but he didn’t see anything. Curufin’s future was as much of a closed book to him as his face was. He could divine nothing, even when he focused.

When he wanted to truly See, he sat in the small room off his bedroom which had only one chair and a small shelf on which he placed candles. A mirror leaned up against the wall opposite him. He would blow out all the candles bar one, and look deep into the mirror, concentrating. _A surface to focus images on_ , his father had said, ages past in another world, where they had sat together as Finrod learned about the art of foresight. Finrod had envied him as he sat looking into the mirror, trying to let his foresight call images to the surface of the glass, an exercise that was often in vain in his youth. Arafinwë never needed any help to see what he wanted of the future.

Finrod wondered about him now as the surface of the glass stayed clear and empty. Would he be able to pierce through the void that seemed to surround his cousin’s future? _Probably. He would never have chastised me for being unable to See, though. He never did that._

“A person’s Sight is equal to their gift, Findaráto,” his father’s voice said in his head, drifting back to him through the years. “Sometimes we don’t See everything. That is the way.”

“But you _do_ See everything,” he remembered whining, and he could still hear his father’s laugh.

Finrod remembered fire, blood, and darkness, and he stood from the chair. His father had never Seen that.

That was what he believed. If his father had Seen the Darkening, the Kinslaying, he would have said something. Done something. Wouldn’t he?

Finrod blew out the candle.

/

 Celegorm was throwing knives at the door. They thudded into the wood with a maddening regularity, lining up in neat rows of three and five. Huan made a small whining noise as he stretched, then rearranged himself in his spot in front of the fire.

“That is incredibly distracting and annoying,” Curufin snapped after ten minutes of the noise.

“You have your own rooms,” Celegorm said, unconcerned.

“You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“Do you need my help? I’m quite sure you can do that alone.” Celegorm got up and walked over to the door to retrieve his knives.

“Your concern is touching.” Curufin bent over the parchment, “Do you have nothing to say to our brothers?”

“No.”

Curufin gave him a look, and he laughed. “Alright, tell them I don’t think about them at all and I hope they all get eaten by dragons. Especially Moryo.”

“Fine. I’m sure they’ll be happy to hear from you.”

Celegorm flopped back into his chair and sighed long-sufferingly. “What are we even doing here, Curvo? This place is a prison.”

“You wanted to come here. _I_ wanted to go to Himring or Amon Ereb, if you recall.”

Celegorm made a face. “Can you imagine being cooped up in a castle with Maitimo and Macalaurë all the time?”

“If you recall, we spent most of our formative years cooped up in a house with all of them, and then years in Formenos.”

“Then we moved out here and I got used to not having them there to moan at me all the time.”

“No, instead you have me, and now our glorious host Findaráto and the loving and welcoming Artaresto as well. How lucky you are.”

Celegorm sniffed. “Why do you think I chose to share a lordship with you if I didn’t mind having you around?”

“I think that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Turko.”

“I’m the one who has the knives here,” Celegorm muttered. Then, louder, “And besides, Findaráto isn’t so bad.”

Curufin paused for a moment, laying his quill aside and looking thoughtful. “No. He’s not so bad. As Arafinwëans go.”

Celegorm snorted. “You like playing with him.”

“‘Playing with him’?”

“You know. Like you used to wind up the others. Only he’s not so easy to rile as Moryo or Laurë or me. He’s more like Maitimo. Calm before a storm.”

Curufin laughed. “You see more than you let on, I think.”

Celegorm smiled. “Always. You’re not the only one watching, you know.”

/

Finrod was standing on the top of a tall hill, overlooking flat rolling plains and the slow, winding course of a blue river. The sun was beating down out of a blue sky overhead, so he knew it wasn’t Valinor, or at least not the Valinor he remembered; but it seemed lovely enough to be.

A woman was riding a horse towards him. She had long black hair and pale white skin. Her dress was dark blue in common, rough fabric, though her horse was well-bred and strong, his coat a deep black and his muscles rippling.

As she came closer he felt a shock of recognition. _Irissë_. She looked often behind her, seeming uncertain. He was invisible to her, as she trotted her horse up the hill and right past him without even looking in his direction. He watched her as she rode away down the hill toward more plains, and a stand of trees that looked to grow into a forest in the distance.

He woke up to a candle burning and guttering at his bedside.

/

The Fëanorian people took a great liking to the forges the dwarves had so exquisitely carved beneath the residential levels of the city, and many of the craftsmen made their homes close by. “I envy you your chance to work with the Naugrim,” Curufin said as he and Finrod made their way down towards the forge levels, “Moryo was as unforthcoming as he ever is when telling us of them, but I feel both cultures have a deal to learn from each other.”

“The dwarves are an interesting people,” Finrod replied, “They no longer linger in these parts, or I would introduce you.”

He wasn’t quite sure why he had allowed himself to be coerced into coming down here with Curufin today. He had other things to be doing, and he had inspected these forges many times over. But his cousin had asked, something knowing in his eyes, and despite himself Finrod hadn’t been able to say no.

“The work goes well,” Curufin said as they walked through the forges themselves, the rooms ringing to the sounds of hammer on anvil and the walls dancing with firelight. “Many of my people are happiest when working. I think perhaps they missed having such a fine outlet for their skills in the green fields of Himlad.”

“They make beautiful things,” Finrod said quietly.

“Naturally,” Curufin said, “But useful things as well.”

There was a small chamber off the main forge room which Curufin had taken as his own, and this was where he led them. When he opened the door he looked surprised for a moment before his face cleared to a smile. “Hello, yonya. What are you doing in here?”

“Plans.” Celebrimbor waved a hand in which he was holding a dozen sheets of paper. His look when he beheld his father was distant. Finrod had sensed a rift between father and son as soon as they’d arrived, though it seemed to him to be born of distance and lack of connection rather than hatred or anger. Before Curufin could speak again Celebrimbor nodded politely to Finrod and said quietly, “I’ll take my leave,” before disappearing out of the door and away among the anvils and groups of labouring craftsmen.

Curufin sighed heavily as he sat down in the chair that Celebrimbor had just vacated. “You aren’t close,” Finrod observed as he perched on the edge of the table.

“We were,” Curufin said, his voice laced with what seemed to be genuine regret, “And then Tyelpe grew from a boy to a man, and we seemed to lose the knack of understanding one another.”

“I’m sorry. That must be hard.”

Curufin shrugged. “It is our problem, not of anyone’s making but our own.” He looked up at Finrod, an unreadable expression coming onto his face. “You have no such troubles yourself.”

“No. I left Amarie behind in Aman.”

“I remember.” Finrod decided on considering to describe the look Curufin was giving him. “No one else has caught your eye, then?”

“Not so far.”

The corner of Curufin’s lip pulled up in a wry expression. “You really intend to stay faithful to her.”

 _What business is it of yours?_ Finrod wanted to ask angrily. Instead he said, “I suppose. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“No.” Curufin’s expression turned into a smile. “You wouldn’t.”

 _What does that mean?_ Finrod shifted uncomfortably. Curufin’s expression was too knowing for his liking. “I should get back,” he said, “There will be people waiting for me.”

Curufin smirked; he knew a weak excuse when he saw one. “Of course. Don’t let me delay you,” was all he said.

/

Finrod rode out the next day, needing space. Even he occasionally needed a break from the caves and a look at open blue sky, a touch of the wind on his face and the whisper of the trees all around him. They passed two weeks without incident, but as they were turning for home they came upon a troop of orcs heading west. They fell on them swiftly and defeated them, but in the midst of the battle Finrod’s sword was tugged from his grasp and kicked away by an Orc, and when he found the sword after the battle it had snapped in two under the Orc’s iron-shod foot.

“A nasty break,” Curufin said when Finrod rather reluctantly presented the broken blade for his inspection upon his return. “The steel may have been weakened, but it was more likely the weight of the orc and lay of the ground underneath. You see that it has snapped near the hilt...Perhaps the leverage…” He trailed off, running his eyes over the broken metal.

“Can it be fixed?” Finrod asked with concern. “The blade came with me from Aman.”

Curufin considered it carefully. “Most likely. I would only entrust it to a person of great skill, however.” He looked longer. “No, I think, if you are willing, I would like to do this myself.”

“You would?” Finrod said, taken aback.

Curufin nodded. “I would entrust it to no other.” He looked up into Finrod’s eyes over the half of the sword that he held by the hilt. “It is a great blade, and if it were remade by unskilled hands it would be ruined.”

A shiver ran down Finrod’s spine, but he ignored it. “There are many skilled craftsmen and women here. You need not take on such responsibility.”

Curufin shook his head. “I can only do this myself,” he insisted. His gaze was intense, his silver eyes boring into Finrod’s. He wanted to look away, but he dared not. He dared not seem weak. Finrod wondered for a moment why the identity of his sword smith was so important.

“If you wish it,” he said quietly, “I would be honoured if you would mend my sword yourself.”

Curufin nodded slowly, and a self-satisfied smile spread across his face. “Nay,” he said quietly, “It would be _my_ honour, of course.”

The silence after his words stretched long as Finrod found he had nothing else to say. Curufin was looking at him, just staring, that smile sharp on his face, his eyes dancing. “Well, thank you,” Finrod muttered eventually, and made his escape to the sound of Curufin’s low chuckle.

/

Finrod was back in Tirion, sitting on a terrace that overlooked the Main Square. He had never seen it bathed in the light of the moon, only in the light of the Trees; but he saw it now as it must be, gilded by silver moonlight.

“But does Tirion look like this?” he wondered aloud to himself. He crossed to the balcony railing, looked out over the square. No one was moving. “How would I know?”

“You know Tirion in your heart,” a voice said behind him, “And the Sight can be used for things other than looking to the future.”

“By a true master,” Finrod said, turning to face the image of his father. Dressed in white, his hair bound up under a crown set with moonstones, Finarfin looked like he might have been born from the moon itself. “Someone like you. Not someone like me.”

“You have always been too modest about your abilities,” his father said, shaking his head. “Your gift is strong-”

“Not strong enough.”

“Only in your eyes. You degrade your gift because you compare it to mine.”

Finrod frowned. “And find it wanting. I have never been able to See at will.”

“Neither have I.”

“You See everything you have ever put your mind to.”

Finarfin shook his head. “Only Mandos has that power, Findaráto. In some things, I am as blind as anyone.” When Finrod stayed silent, Finarfin continued in a quieter voice, “If I had Seen everything, don’t you think I would have tried to change what happened?”

“You did try to change things,” Finrod said quietly.

“If I had known exactly what was going to happen, Findaráto, I would not have simply tried, I would have succeeded.”

Finrod sighed. “Alright, you win. As per usual.”

Finarfin laughed quietly, and reached up one hand to brush his fingers across Finrod’s cheekbone. “I miss you, Findaráto,” he said softly.

“I miss you too,” Finrod whispered. Then he laughed bitterly. “That’s why I’m having a dream about you, of course. Conjuring up your image to assure myself you still love me, to tell me I’m not a failure. This is just a dream.”

“Is it?” There was a sad smile on Finarfin’s face. “There are many things you do not know about dreams, Findaráto.”

“What do you mean by that?” Finrod asked, but then he blinked and he was awake once again, lying in the dark, alone.

“What do you mean by that?” he whispered to himself, laying his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes.

/

Finrod had not had much time for contact with his niece and nephew. He had meant to make time for them, but as with so many things to distract his attention it seemed to slip his mind and never made it to the top of his list.

Which was why it surprised him to find both of them walking towards him along a corridor one morning, arm in arm, with Finduilas chattering animatedly about something. Celebrimbor didn’t do much more than nod his head, but he seemed to be listening to her intently.

“It seems you two are getting along well,” he said, stepping into their path with a smile.

“Uncle!” Finduilas greeted him happily. Celebrimbor looked slightly uneasy at the sight of him, and mumbled something that just about passed as greeting.

He didn’t need to say much, though, it seemed; Finduilas seemed quite content to say enough for both of them. “I insisted we had to meet, because we’re cousins and cousins should know each other, shouldn’t we?” she explained when Finrod asked how they had met. “Bonds of family and all that. You can’t rely on your family if you don’t know them! Well, we could probably rely on you, Uncle Findaráto, but then you are very kind and charitable, as your acceptance of Tyelpe’s father and uncle proves, of course, and-”

“And what is it you talk about?” Finrod interrupted her gently.

She didn’t seem to resent the interruption, and blithely switched subjects. “Oh, everything and anything, uncle. Tyelpe is very interested in forges and things, so we talk about those, and I have learned a lot of things I never knew before. In the same way, Tyelpe has learned things about women that I’m _sure_ will help him once he finds himself a wife.” Her smile was mischievous, and Celebrimbor’s face was turning red.

Finrod chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your conversations, as you seem to be enjoying them so much.”

Later, after he had made yet another visit down to Curufin’s forge to observe and cast judgement upon the progress of his sword’s repair, he found that same cousin seated next to him at the High Table for dinner. “You must have a way with the steward, to so often have the honour of the seat at my right hand conferred upon you,” he said, a slight note of irritation in his voice.

“Your steward understands the importance of family,” Curufin said in a neutral tone. “And I always find myself more comfortable eating in the presence of those I trust.”

Finrod looked at him sidelong from the corner of his eye. Curufin may trust him, but he wasn’t sure he entirely trusted Curufin. There was a mass of feeling and uncertainty attached to the thought of his cousin that he couldn’t untangle, no matter how hard he tried. He wasn’t one to lie awake at night worrying at his problems, but the conundrum of his cousin was a cause for disquiet. Instead of voicing anything near to those thoughts, though, Finrod simply said, “I am always gladdened by your company,” which brought an almost sly smirk to Curufin’s face.

Finrod decided to change the subject. “I noticed your son and my niece in each other’s company today.”

“Aye, I’ve noticed they keep company with each other from time to time. Tyelpe is dedicated to his work, but he makes time for her like a good cousin should.”

“Indeed.” Finrod paused while he took a bite of the fish they had been served as a first course, fresh caught from the river and marinated in a strong sauce. “You don’t think there’s…” He trailed off, and Curufin looked at him expectantly. “Something more?” he finished lamely.

Curufin laughed. “No, I don’t think so. Tyelpe couldn’t see flirtation coming if it came along and smacked him upside the face, but Finduilas is a lot more aware. She knows what she wants, and what she wants is not him.”

“You’re certain?”

“Fairly.” Curufin took a sip of his wine. “Of course, if they _did_ feel they’d like to pursue that path I would not stand in their way. It would make a smart match, and I’ve become quite fond of young Finduilas, though our paths seldom cross.” Then a smirk similar to earlier returned. “I think Artaresto would not find it so pleasing.”

Finrod sighed. “No. That is a headache I am glad it seems we shall avoid.”

“Everything to do with Artaresto seems to be a headache lately. He’s not exactly been _accommodating_.”

Finrod snorted. “I thought you always thought everything to do with Artaresto was a headache?”

Curufin smiled wolfishly. “Perhaps. But I could not say so in front of my liege and King, now could I?”

Finrod felt suddenly uncomfortable with being addressed as such. “Findekáno is the one to hold the honour of liege and King over us all,” he said deferentially.

“Indeed.” Finrod met Curufin’s eyes, which were looking at him with calculation and intensity. “Last I checked, though, Finrod was King in Nargothrond, and I was one of its lords.”

“Findekáno is the High King, and you…” Finrod trailed off. He had no good argument, and he was not even quite sure why he was arguing this point anyway. Perhaps it was the look in Curufin’s eyes. Always so _challenging_. “Forgive me, I’m going to retire,” he said suddenly. It was the coward’s way out, and he’d barely touched his plate, but he needed to clear his head.

Curufin simply inclined his head gracefully. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

/

Finrod had dreams dark with foreboding but with little useable content. He didn’t see his father again, and that made them worse; always the dreams of his father were strange, but in also settling.

Curufin insisted he came often down to the forge where he was mending the sword, to observe its progress and the way he was working it. It was always hot down in the forge, too high a temperature for Finrod’s comfort, and he envied Curufin who seemed completely unbothered by the heat. He would beat the metal in various ways, show it to Finrod for his observation, then beat it some more. Finrod did not quite understand what all the work was for. The end of the blade had been rejoined to the stump that had been left on the hilt; surely the work was done? But no, Curufin said, with these Valinorian swords things were different. One had to be careful. It was all about balance and temper and things like that.

Finrod would stand in the flickering light of the forge-fires and watch his cousin at his work, attempting to not let his eyes linger on a well-muscled back and arms, and not letting himself think about whatever that meant. Nor would he allow his thoughts to linger on the indecipherable look in Curufin’s deep grey eyes whenever he stood from the anvil and caught Finrod’s gaze with his own. Both things led more certainly to doom than anything his visions had shown him.

It was, predictably, at this point of uneasiness and tension that his sister arrived.

She had always had a gift for arriving at that time when he didn’t _really_ want to see her, but also when he had no _real_ excuse to turn her away. Not that she ever asked before she came. He simply woke up one morning to one of his servants informing him that the Lady Galadriel had arrived and was breaking her fast in her guest rooms, and would he like to attend her there?

“I’d like her to occasionally give me some warning before she comes stomping into the place,” he muttered angrily, snatching the tunic from the servant’s outstretched hand. The other man didn’t look surprised; this wasn’t the first time the Lady had turned up uninvited.

Since she had indicated she wanted him to come to her, he didn’t waste time. He’d learned by now that if she wanted to come to him she would have already done so; if he wanted to see her, he would have to go to her, otherwise he would wait who knew how long. Besides, he wanted this over with, whatever she had to say.

Galadriel looked serene as he stepped into her rooms. Seated at a table with only a bowl of fruit, a plate and a small knife before her, she looked up at him with an almost calculating expression. “Findaráto. How nice of you to join me.”

Finrod took the seat opposite her. “I would have had more suitable accommodation prepared if I’d known you were coming,” he said pointedly.

“You complain every time, but you never send me away,” she said, the corner of her lip quirking up slightly.

“You’re my sister.”

“You take family loyalty very seriously, I see.”

Finrod sighed. “If you’re here about our cousins…”

She waved a hand. “Who you allow into your city is no business of mine.” Then she looked straight at him, her gaze intense. “Who you allow close to you is another matter, however.”

“It’s only natural we are close. We’re cousins, and they are lords of the city besides. They have responsibility for half the people who live here.”

“As you say,” Galadriel dismissed the line of conversation, but he could tell that that was not her last thought on the subject. Her expression went back to distinctly calculating when she spoke next. “I’m here for your dreams, Findaráto.”

Finrod leaned forward, glad for the change in subject. A discussion of foresight he could handle. “Why? What have you been Seeing?”

She looked at him intently. “This and that. Things.”

He sighed and began to explain the dreams he had had since last they met. There would be no wheedling anything out of her before she had what she wanted. “Is that all you came for?” he asked after he had finished, when she was staring into the mid-distance without speaking.

“Mostly,” Galadriel said quietly, still not focused on him.

“Are you going to tell me what you’ve been seeing?”

“Similar things. I dreamed of Irissë like you did, but not in the same circumstances.” She looked at him curiously, with something else mixed into her expression that he could not divine. “I never dream about Atar, though. I never dream about Aman.”

“I seem to see Atar in my dreams every other night.”

“Perhaps he is trying to tell you something.” Galadriel looked troubled, though she didn’t say why.

“How could he tell me anything? I’m just imagining him.”

“And you are just imagining the visions you see?” Galadriel’s gaze was sharp. “Didn’t he tell about the power of dreams before we left Aman?”

Finrod scowled. “He seems to have told you a lot more than he ever told me.”

Galadriel laid a hand over his. “I was likely wrong; it was probably the Lady Melian who told me such things,” she said gently, trying to reassure him. They both knew she didn’t ever forget where she learned a piece of knowledge, though, so her words were of little comfort.

Finrod sighed and stood. “I’m afraid I must take my leave,” he said, “There are things I must see to.”

“Findaráto.” She stood as well and caught his arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t.” He looked down at her hand, then took it gently in one of his own. “I am simply frustrated because I can never See more than random fragments.”

“That is the way,” Galadriel said, squeezing his hand, “Those who would See clearer must take time to learn how to focus. You have too many responsibilities to spend your time cooped up meditating and training your mind.” Then she laughed quietly, “And in Aman you were always too impatient.”

He grinned. “So were you, if I recall.”

She nodded, smiling. “The Lady’s education has done wonders for that.”

“I envy you.”

“You should.” She raised a hand and brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear. “If you had not taken it into your head to become a King, I would have taken you to her and we would have learnt together.”

He clasped both her hands together in his. “What is the rule about could have beens?”

“Don’t dwell on them.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “It is good to be back. I miss you in Doriath. I never imagined we would be living so far away from one another.”

“The only one I would name Queen of Nargothrond is you. You could still join us, if you wished.”

She shook her head. “My place is in Doriath. Besides, what would happen if you met a beautiful Sindar girl running through the woods one night and she captured your heart? Two Queens of Nargothrond?”

“The problem could be resolved if you brought along your beautiful Sindar prince. Then we would be equal.”

She frowned at him, and he laughed. “I really should go,” he said reluctantly. The short exchange had made him remember just how much he missed her.

“Go be Kingly,” she said teasingly, and they both laughed.

/

 _The sword is almost complete_ , the note said, _Come take a look when you are able._

“You took long enough with it,” Finrod said as he entered, and neither of them mentioned that he had come as soon as he received the message, because obviously he wouldn’t have come if he had anything better to do. Obviously.

“It was a labour of love,” Curufin said, straightening from his hunched over position.

They stared at each other a few moments without speaking before Finrod said, “Well, I came to see it.”

Curufin lifted the cloth from the nearly finished sword without a word.

Finrod snorted softly. “You weren’t just fixing it.”

“It’s only a little decoration.”

Finrod stepped closer and ran a finger over the beautifully engraved runes and decorative swirls that now adorned the blade, admiring the extra wrapped wire and subtle jewels that had been placed in the hilt. “All this finery was what took so long?”

“That and some other adjustments.”

“Can I test it?” Finrod asked, holding out a hand for the hilt.

Curufin shook his head, drawing the sword back. “Not until it’s finished. It isn’t perfect yet.”

Finrod smiled. “Perfect, is it going to be?”

Curufin eyed him, considering. “A sword should be perfect.” He shrugged, “Perfection is the only thing I aim for.”

Finrod sniffed. “Most smiths would rush to be more modest.” He paused, tracing a pattern with his eyes, and then said, “And what of the arm behind the sword? The perfection of the weapon is useless if the wielder behind it is subpar.”

“Yes,” Curufin nodded, “Even the most perfect of swords would be a butcher’s knife in an unskilled hand.”

“Lucky for you then that I consider myself a perfect swordsman,” Finrod said with a chuckle.

“The sword’s perfection or yours are the same to me,” Curufin said, his dark eyes flickering. “Both bend to my will just the same.”

If Curufin had said it in a lighter tone, Finrod could have laughed it off as a joke. There was no jesting with his cousin now, though. Not with that look in his eyes. “Forgive me, I didn’t think I was in the habit of bowing down to you,” Finrod said stiffly.

Curufin’s mouth twisted, but the expression was almost a smile. “No, you are not. Sometimes I wonder if I want you to be.”

“Well, wonder no more, for it will not happen.”

Curufin set the sword down on the anvil carefully, his eyes never leaving Finrod. “No?”

“No.” Curufin took a step toward him, just one, but Finrod felt like backing away to restore the distance. He didn’t however; he held his ground, and Curufin came a bit closer.

His expression was a smirk now. “So I suppose I shall have to submit to you, then, shall I?” he said, his voice a whisper.

Finrod did take one step back. Allowed himself one step. “That is the idea of fealty to a liege lord.”

“So it is,” Curufin said, his eyes dark, his smile firmly in place.

Finrod didn’t wait for him to come closer, and this time he didn’t even bother with an excuse. The only description for his action was flight; he fled from his cousin’s presence, but this time no laughter accompanied him, real or imagined.

/

Finrod avoided both his cousins for the remainder of the week and the one after that, and by then Orodreth had turned up on the pretext of seeing Galadriel again, so he took the time to socialise with his brother. Orodreth hadn’t lost his slightly sullen air, and Galadriel was still her formidable and tempestuous self, but it was better than being with nobody. And it was hundreds of times better than being with Curufin.

“I don’t approve of them,” Orodreth said at the feast that was thrown in honour of Nargothrond’s guests, where he was seated on Finrod’s left hand and Galadriel on his right.

“They’re only friends,” Finrod said, following Orodreth’s gaze down to where his daughter was sitting with her cousin. “She told me so herself.”

“There’s this thing called lying, Findaráto, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. Young girls in love tend toward it.”

“She’s not in love with him, Resto.”

“As you say,” Orodreth said, scowling.

Finrod, reminded of Galadriel’s earlier words, paused. “Listening to you two arguing is almost like being back at home,” the lady herself put in, giving them a disapproving sideways look as she chose some vegetables for her plate. “And this time I agree with Findaráto.”

“You always agreed with Findaráto anyway,” Orodreth said, sullen.

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Perhaps,” Orodreth deferred, but Finrod could tell he still didn’t believe them.

Galadriel cornered him after the feast, when he was on the way back to his rooms. “Don’t go down to the forges tonight,” she said, her eyes shining in the darkness of the hallway.

Finrod shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking to. I was going to retire.”

Galadriel studied his face for a long moment. “Don’t go,” she said again, “And guard well your heart.” Before he could reply she turned and disappeared down the corridor, and he was left wondering by her again.

When he returned to his rooms, a piece of parchment was lying on his desk.

As he looked at it he felt a familiar sense of foreboding rise in him. Galadriel had warned him not to go to the forges, and he had had no intention of such. But now there was this message. Was this what she had seen tempting him down there?

He picked it up and read it, confirming his fear. Yes, the sword was ready, and his cousin bid him come collect it.

 _Don’t go down to the forges tonight_ , Galadriel’s voice echoed in his head, but he put the message down and found his feet taking the ways to the lower levels almost without his being conscious of it. The door to the forge where Curufin usually awaited him was open, and firelight flickered on the walls, but the room beyond seemed silent and empty. Finrod paused on the threshold for a few moments, thinking of turning and going back; but he entered.

Curufin was waiting for him, in a chair off to the side. He was running an oiling cloth up the length of the sword and didn’t seem to notice Finrod at first, though when he stepped forward into the light Curufin’s head turned at a leisurely pace, unsurprised, and Finrod wondered if he’d known he was there all along.

“So you heeded my summons,” Curufin said, his voice low and without the humour to make the comment a jest.

Finrod didn’t say anything.

Curufin set the sword down gently, laying the cloth beside it, and rose slowly from the chair. He came forward with a lithe, unhurried grace, staring at Finrod with eyes that seemed suddenly hungry. Finrod backed away a few steps, almost stumbling over his own feet.

“You were going to show me the sword,” he said softly, when Curufin was only a few feet away.

Curufin gave a low laugh. “I could make a very, very bad, crude joke there, dear cousin.” He grinned, “Turko would.”

“I don’t want to hear about Turko,” Finrod said, though he didn’t really intend to say it before he found it coming out of his mouth.

Curufin shook his head slowly. “I know.”

There were another few beats of heavy silence while they stared at each other. The atmosphere had changed, and it was only now that Finrod allowed himself to acknowledge what he had realized long, long ago.

“So it is that way,” he said, and Curufin didn’t need to ask what way he meant.

“If you want it to be,” his cousin replied, stepping closer, and this time Finrod didn’t step back.

Anyone else, even himself in usual circumstances, would have known this was a bad idea. But somehow this didn’t feel real, didn’t feel like the normal world, so Finrod said, “Yes, I want it to be,” and suddenly Curufin was so close he could smell the metal on his hands and the lingering scent of the oil he’d been wiping onto the sword.

“Good,” was all his cousin said, but his smile was so triumphant that in other circumstances it would have made Finrod nervous. Now he just felt the rough stone of the wall pressing into his back and Curufin’s hot breath on his ear, and he smiled, running one finger across the curve of his cousin’s neck.

“Good,” he replied, and that was all he said for a while.

He couldn’t decide if it went too quickly or moved too slow. He could feel the heat emanating from the forge’s fire on his bare thighs, like only a brush of a warm breeze compared to his cousin’s burning hands pulling said thighs around his waist. His mouth burned too, and it tasted like metal and a little like ash and then like blood when Finrod bit his lip hard. Altogether what he remembered was heat and rough stone and the feeling of Curufin’s hair on his face; small snatches of images and feelings and sensations that would never piece together into a collective whole.

The forge wasn’t the best place for anything more adventurous than wandering hands and mouths, though, so Finrod wasn’t surprised when they wound up in Curufin’s rooms. Celegorm shared the adjoining ones, he remembered. There was no sign of him tonight. Curufin’s bed was wide and comfortable, but the hangings were black. It unsettled Finrod for some reason he could not explain.

Curufin kissed the back of his neck when he’d slipped the tunic from his shoulders, and asked in a low voice what he was looking at. “Nothing,” Finrod whispered, and they continued on.

The loving could have been called rough, only it didn’t really seem to hurt; the scratches and bite marks made dark impressions on his skin, but couldn’t have called what he felt true pain. He left blood in the wake of his fingernails down Curufin’s back, but he encouraged it, bit his lip as Finrod had split his earlier, sunk teeth gently and not-so-gently into the skin of his neck. The joining of bodies was quick and forceful, all harsh gasps and sharp movements, the pillows crushed under Finrod’s flung-back head and Curufin’s long fingers grasping tight enough to hurt around his elbows.

He lay there on his back afterwards with Curufin’s long legs entangled in his, his breath brushing over his collarbone, and stared up at the black hangings over the bed.

“Black,” he said quietly, “Why black?”

“It’s the colour of my heart,” Curufin whispered, his voice full with its usual humour again. Finrod could tell he hadn’t noticed the disquiet in his tone; he wanted to go to sleep.

Finrod let him. It wasn’t as if he could answer his questions. Only Finrod could ever answer his own questions.

“This won’t last, will it?” he asked the ceiling.

The hangings fluttered in the wind.

/

Finrod was standing in the dark; he could tell he was in a cave from the closeness of the air and the way the sounds echoed back to him, and he could feel water soaking into his boots. _Some kind of underground river_.

There was a faint light in the distance. He could see it growing, coming closer as he watched. He stood still and waited for it to arrive next to him. As it came closer he made out a figure on a horse, riding toward him through the light. There were other figures too, more behind the first. When the horse and rider were close enough, he realized the rider was his grandfather.

Finwë didn’t seem to notice him; he rode straight past without looking in Finrod’s direction at all. The riders behind him were all Finrod’s family as well, and they rode in a strange order. Not one looked in his direction as they passed.

First there was Amras, then his father Fëanor behind him, and then Finrod’s brothers, Aegnor and Angrod, riding side by side. Then there was his other uncle and his only daughter, Aredhel clad in white again but still riding the black horse he had seen in his other dream. After them he saw a vision of himself on a pale horse, and this shade did notice him; it looked at him with sad, sorrowful eyes as it came past.

Others followed; first Fingon and then Orodreth, then Celegorm, Curufin and Caranthir all at once. Turgon rode on his own, his face passive and aloof, and behind him was Amrod. Maedhros was last, his hair burning in the unnatural light that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere all at once, his face smooth and expressionless.

Finrod watched them all pass on through the darkness of the tunnel, going he knew not where. He wanted to reach out, call them back; they were going somewhere beyond his reach, taking the light with them.

And yet one rider _was_ him. So what was he, standing there alone in the dark?

When he turned away to face the direction the riders had come he saw a garden of trees and beautiful flowers, but as if from a distance like they were at the end of the tunnel and he was still a ways down it, looking out. In the garden he could see the familiar figure of his father, standing with his back to him. He went to call out, to begin walking, until he noticed the cloth in his father’s hands. Some kind of banner, he thought, or a robe. And it was black. Deepest black, unrelieved by design or embroidery. A thought stirred in Finrod’s memory. He called weakly; his father went to turn, but before Finrod saw his face he was opening his eyes to stare up at the black drapes hanging around Curufin’s bed.

 _Death, death, black means death_ , a voice whispered in his head.

The room was heated, the covers were heavy, and Curufin’s sleeping body lying beside him was warm as a fire. But Finrod was cold. 

**Author's Note:**

> As I read this back I thought the writing may have been influenced a little by GRRM's style (what comes from writing while finishing off the fifth book) but I'm not sure. The last dream scene was definitely inspired by Jaime's dream in _A Storm of Swords_. 
> 
> Headcanon-wise, I'm...not quite all over the shop? I think I'm satisfied with it. Mostly. 
> 
> Proper canon-wise, I think I got it right. I hope. Unless something I've overlooked comes back to bite me in the bum. I really need to get my hands on an accurate timeline for the Silm, I'm sure one exists somewhere (probably one I'm grossly ignorant of).
> 
> Anyway, Happy Sultry in September everyone! :D


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